


Dust to dust

by MedeaV



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Cooking, Dancing, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 19:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17350871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MedeaV/pseuds/MedeaV
Summary: A quiet night in, sometime before Christmas, featuring cooking and dancing and teasing.He's put up all the Christmas decoration already. Right. Shit. She should do something for that. But she still has a week, a week and a half. She pushes herself away from the corner. “Did something go bad?”He snorts. “Always does, right? No, it's okay. Just needed a break.”She slips behind him, wrapping her arms around his chest. He exhales. She presses a kiss to his shoulder blade, through the shirt. “How long has it been?”“Thirteen days,” he murmurs, leaning back against her. “Twelve and a half.”“Sorry,” she whispers, letting go of him. “I'm gonna take a shower. I'll be right back, smelling a lot nicer.”





	Dust to dust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [joyfulscorpio](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=joyfulscorpio).



> Lizziesaltyzman's song prompt was "Dust to Dust" by The Civil Wars. Also, I had to get another piece of music mixed in.

She smells it as soon as she opens the door.

If he makes her soup, it's usually bad. Not the soup, he makes borscht like a Russian babushka. It's cliché, but then again, she cannot claim particularly much authentic Russianness at this point. But if he makes her soup, it usually means he's not in a good place. She remembers coming home from difficult missions, missions where she got hurt, and finding gallons of soup in the fridge.

She kicks her shoes off, not caring to put them on the shoe rack, and leans against the corner peeking around. He's not actually in the kitchen, just a boiling pot. Shit. There's candles. Did she forget something? Birthday? Anniversary? Other holiday? She probably forgot something. It's been a busy week, and really, all these stupid anniversaries, first kiss, first sex, moving in together, why would one even-

The bedroom door opens and he emerges, hair wet, smiling when he sees her. “Oh, hey. There you are, just on time.”

“Please just tell me what I fucked up this time,” she asks. At least he's in sweatpants. So it's not that serious. “I mean- candles?”

He laughs, lifting the lid of the pot and stirring. “Don't worry, doll, it's nothing. Was just in the mood.”

 _It's not your eyes_  
_It's not what you say_ _  
It's not your laughter that gives you away_

He's put up all the Christmas decoration already. Right. Shit. She should do something for that. But she still has a week, a week and a half. She pushes herself away from the corner. “Did something go bad?”

He snorts. “Always does, right? No, it's okay. Just needed a break.”  
_You're just lonely_ _  
You've been lonely too long_

 She slips behind him, wrapping her arms around his chest. He exhales. She presses a kiss to his shoulder blade, through the shirt. “How long has it been?”

“Thirteen days,” he murmurs, leaning back against her. “Twelve and a half.”

“Sorry,” she whispers, letting go of him. “I'm gonna take a shower. I'll be right back, smelling a lot nicer.”

“Bought you a new shower gel,” he remarks, pretending to be preoccupied with the pot. “Cinnamon or something. Looked Christmas-y.”

“I'll let you know in a second,” she promises, slipping away to the bathroom.

 _All your acting_  
_Your thin disguise_  
_All your perfectly delivered lies_  
_They don't fool me_ _  
You've been lonely too long_

 He's set the table when she comes back, the pretty red tablecloth underneath. He's not even on his phone now. She rubs through her hair again, then drops the towel by the bedroom door. He snorts, turning around. “You're such a slob.”

“Come on,” she purrs, dancing within his reach. “You missed me.”

“You've been away much longer, on other occasions,” he replies, almost catching her wrist but she's faster. “And you still don't seem to have a clue what a shoe rack is for.”

Her eyes widen almost comically. “Who cares about shoes. Come on, catch me.”

“I'm not _chasing_ you,” he stresses. “Also, it's pretty small here, you really have nowhere to go.”

She smirks, prancing around the edge of his reach. “Aw, sure. I'll show you.”

He rolls his eyes. “The soup's gonna burn, doll.”

“Fuck the soup,” she states in a deceptively soft voice. “Oh, you know what, fuck you.”

His eyes go straight down to where his shirt ends on her thighs. Suddenly, he leaps forward, but she saw it coming, anticipated it, and she ducks out of his reach again and again, reading his next move faster than he can make it, until her back hits the wall of the bedroom and he bumps right into her, pressing up against her, his turn to smirk. “Got you.”

“Oh my,” she remarks, hooking her left leg around his hip. “What a terrible thing to happen.”  
_Let me in the wall you've built around_ _  
And we can light a match and burn it down_

 He lets it go, instead ducking in to nuzzle her neck, breathing her in deeply. She gets a little goosebumps. Her hair is still wet. She pulls him in with her leg.

“Cinnamon,” he remarks before moving up to her lips. She hums, letting him in, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. His shirt has rucked up almost to her hips but she doesn't push it right now, lavishing in the laziness they're so rarely permitted.

She's a little disappointed when he pulls back already. “Mhm. Close your eyes.”

They're already closed, so she just nods, pretending to be very serious. He pushes her arms off him. “Stay here. Don't move.”

“Okay,” she mutters, again a little disappointed when he doesn't drop to his knees to make her see stars. Also very Christmas-y. But okay, she'll wait. She hears him moving around in the kitchen. The soup? No, patience.

“Don't open your eyes,” he reminds her from the kitchen and she snorts impatiently. Okay, just get on with it. She thinks she hears a little _pling._ Oh- she freezes. This idiot. This _idiot._

The violin of Tchaikovsky's _Valse sentimentale_ serenades towards her. She snorts and almost opens her eyes, but he is there to close them again gently. “Nuh-uh. Eyes closed.”

 _Let me hold your hand and dance 'round and 'round the flame_  
_In front of us_ _  
Dust to dust_

 He places the left hand over her shoulder blades, taking her hand with his right. His apartment is small, too much furniture, there's no fucking space for a fucking waltz, and her eyes are closed and she can't even-

He spins her around and her feet respond almost automatically, not losing balance for a second, back straightening automatically. It's the London Festival Orchestra version, which is of course the best one, and she moves backwards before he steps on her foot, and then the music swells and she's twirling, eyes closed, through this fucking tiny apartment, and he pulls her to the side just a little with the next turn, she's not even sure anymore which way is which, eyes closed, and he spins them more to the right, the music swelling even more, she realizes she's not even close to losing her balance, definitely not in his arms, even if they move at twice the speed, spinning on approximately five square feet because that's the free space in his kitchen, she squints and they're actually there, in the kitchen, judging by the blurred tablecloth flying past her.

He leans in to kiss her neck again, which is really bad form on his part, this must look ridiculous, she in his shirt which doesn't even cover her thighs, wet hair, he in sweatpants, dancing the tiniest possible waltz in this little kitchen, it's really a wonder she hasn't bumped into anything yet, and if he can kiss her neck, she can certainly open her eyes, so she does.

“That's your Christmas present, by the way, doll,” he whispers against her neck, still spinning them with surgical precision. “Cause I'm not sure we're gonna meet again before that.”

She snorts, watching closely but he misses the stove just so. “Oh, you also forgot.”

He rolls his eyes, lifting his head again. “Last time, I got you a necklace and you ripped it.”

“This guy was trying to choke me with it!” she defends, automatically dropping a little back to look up at him.

“Exactly,” he replies, sliding his left hand a little back up. “I'm not getting you another gift that someone might use to try to kill you. I'm positive a waltz is safe.”

“If you don't step on my feet,” she remarks, even though it's not even close. “So, that's your Christmas party? Come on, it's the _14th_.”

He snorts. “Yeah, and tomorrow someone threatens to blow up a nuclear plant in Nicaragua. Not risking it.”

“I'll have you know that since you didn't give me a heads-up, it's your fault I don't have anything for you,” she adds. “So, I'm not counting that under my fuck-ups.”

He rubs his cheek against her wet hair, which entirely ruins the whole posture, they're way too close for a waltz, but who gives a fuck, there's no one here to judge. “Oh, I can think of something I want.”

She smirks, rubbing a little against him. “Oh, really, can you?”

 _You've held your head up_  
_You've fought the fight_  
_You bear the scars_  
_You've done your time_  
_Listen to me_ _  
You've been lonely too long_

 They step around more slowly again. If any actual dancing teacher saw them, they'd scream. But it's for them. For her. For Christmas.

The song dripples out and she gazes at him, her feet have somehow found their place on their own where they can stay. The final tone fades out and then it's quiet, other than the stove. “You deserve this,” she whispers. “All of this. You know that, right?”

He pulls her in, hugging her. “Yeah. But thanks for reminding me.”

She buries her face in his chest. The cinnamon is probably from her, but he still smells good. She realizes she's really home.

 _You're like a mirror, reflecting me_  
_Takes one to know one, so take it from me_  
_You've been lonely_ _  
You've been lonely too long_

 “The soup's gonna burn,” he mutters, not letting go of her. She doesn't care. Food, Christmas, that's all just background noise and what really matters is that she is here, that they are here, even if it's just for now. It's nice, for people like them, to come back to a place they can call home and that frankly even feels a bit like it, as far as people like them can tell. Before there's another mission in the world outside that takes them away for days, weeks, months. But now they're here, and now they're home.

“So, if it's Christmas already,” she whispers against his shirt. “Are you gonna make me see stars?”

He snorts, cupping her ass with his right hand. “Well, you gotta choose, doll. Food or stars?”

“I'm going to assume that's about the order,” she remarks. “Otherwise, well, shit.”

 _We've been lonely_ _  
We've been lonely too long_


End file.
